


Lost and found

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Kidnapping, Kissing, Marriage Proposal, No Incest, Parenthood, Presumed Dead, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil’s childhood sweetheart returns after being presumed dead, giving him a second chance at true love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and found

Elvish guide:

 _gwathel_ : sister  
_ionneg_ : my son  
_ada_ : daddy  
_nana_ : mother  
_aran nín_ : my king  
_meleth nín_ : my love  
_gi melin_ : I love you

—————————–

“Again, again!” 

Legolas’ voice was gleeful as he tugged at your hands, refusing to take no for an answer until you laughed and whisked him off of the ground again to spin him around in your arms until his blonde hair flew out behind him, catching the glow of the morning sunlight in its strands. You kissed the child’s temple and set him back on his feet, where he giggled and looked adoringly up at you, his eyes pleading.

“Spin me again, _gwathel_?”

You were not, in fact, Legolas’ sister, though you accepted the title as a term of endearment, understood his need to give you a special designation as the closest thing to a mother he had known in his short life. He had asked to call you _Nana_ once, years ago. The pain on Thranduil’s face had been vivid, heartbreaking, and you’d gently explained to the little one that only his mother could bear that name, lost to him though she was. He had only nodded solemnly, trying to understand truths that should never have burdened a child.

Another voice answered Legolas’ request. “ _Ionneg_ , it is time for your luncheon.”

Thranduil had been watching from the arbor that stood at the garden’s entrance for some time, with smiles at his son’s joyful laughter and a full heart to see your tenderness with him. You had long been Thranduil’s rock, his chiefest comfort in the confused, helpless years that had followed his wife’s death, a maternal figure to Legolas when he had none…and despite the countless times over the course of his life that he had resisted it, even smothered it with obedience and honor and dutiful devotion to another, the love begun in his childhood burned in his soul, brighter, more insistently than ever.

“ _Ada!_ ” Legolas cried, leaving your side to run to his father, throwing his arms around Thranduil’s legs. Thranduil’s graceful fingers smoothed the boy’s hair and tipped his chin upward to smile at him. 

“The cooks have prepared your favorite soup…you must run along and eat before it grows cold.”

Legolas turned to you once again, clasping your hand in his small one. “Shall I see you at bedtime? You promised to finish the story about the troll and the magic stag.”

“You shall, little leaf,” you chuckled, squeezing his hand between both of yours. “Now eat a good lunch, to grow tall and strong.”

“As tall as _Ada!_ ” Legolas grinned.

“As tall as _Ada_ ,” you agreed, smiling as the boy scampered off to meet his governess on the path toward the palace gates.

Left alone, you and Thranduil exchanged smiles of greeting, and he plucked a white flower from the nearest trellis and offered it to you.

“Are you to the patrol?” he asked.

“I am,” you affirmed, jauntily tucking the blossom into the clasp of your dark green cloak. “I expect it will be another routine watch.”

“Mmm,” he nodded. There was a pause before he added, “would you join me for dinner this evening…in my chambers?”

“Of course,” you answered agreeably, though you searched his face. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I simply wish to enjoy your company.” A seriousness in his expression, the questioning look in his eyes, belied his light words, and you gave him a reassuring smile.

“Of course,” you repeated, clasping his forearm. “I shall look forward to it.”

His face brightened again, as the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and the backs of his slender fingers feathered over your cheek as he cautioned you – needlessly, he knew – “be careful.”

“I always am.”

With these words, and one last smile, you left him in the garden.

* * *

Thranduil fought a growing sense of unease as he paced his sitting room, stopping occasionally to make some minute, unnecessary adjustment to the placement of the silver utensils and assorted crystal decanters on the table, laid for an intimate supper for two.

He strode to the fireplace, where his fingers trailed over a small casket of carved wood that stood on the mantle, lifting its lid to glimpse inside. On a bed of black velvet lay a delicate ring of engraved silver set with a large, deep purple gem, and it calmed him, coaxed a smile to his lips to imagine the jewel adorning a graceful hand, to think that this night he would cast off the fear of gossip and the shackles of ancient custom and claim the happiness he had so long been denied.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, and his lips parted in a welcoming smile with the thrill that coursed through him, but his guest was not the one he longed for. Feren edged hesitantly into the room, and his ashen face and trembling hands could not escape Thranduil’s notice.

“ _Aran nín,_ ” he said haltingly.

Dread rose like bile in Thranduil’s throat. “What has happened?”

“ _Aran nín,_ ” Feren repeated, as though unable to bring himself to deliver the message he carried.

Thranduil’s eyes darted to the object Feren clutched with whitened knuckles, some sort of bundle, rolled and bunched. “What is that in your hand?”

With a look of utter helplessness, Feren extended the crumpled object toward Thranduil, and he took it into his hands to examine it, unfolding the dark green fabric that hung in ugly, bloodstained tatters from its fragile seams. It was what remained of a cloak, and hanging brokenly from the cloak’s silver clasp, crushed and blotched with crimson, was a white flower.

Thranduil’s tongue seemed to have turned to dust in his mouth, and he whispered hoarsely, “where is she?”

“Gone, my lord,” Feren said miserably. “An orc attack. We found…some of the others, but…the wargs, _aran nín_ …” He trailed off, shrinking from the grisly conclusion the search party had been able to draw.

The king’s eyes stared at Feren as though seeing through him, and his voice was cold and deathly quiet. “Leave me.”

Feren only nodded, and quickly left the room. He did not go away, however, but took up a post before the door to the king’s chambers, warning away servants and listening with a heavy heart to the muffled, animalistic sobs and the crash of shattering crystal from within.

When Thranduil emerged, his face was pale and drawn, and he spoke as though every word cost him great effort. “Where is my son?”

“Prince Legolas is in his chambers,” Feren answered, adding delicately, “he has been told nothing.”

Thranduil inhaled deeply before turning the handle of the door to Legolas’ bedroom, from whence he could hear the child’s disgruntled whining to his governess.

Legolas looked to his father to continue his grievance. “ _Ada_ , where is my _gwathel?_ I want her. She said she would come to tell me a story.”

Thranduil gave a short nod of dismissal to the somber governess, who bowed and quickly exited. “She is not coming, _ionneg_ ,” he said quietly. “She is gone.”

Confusion registered in the boy’s wide blue eyes before fear took its place. “Gone?” he asked, then wondered in a small, hesitant voice, “like my mother?”

The question pierced Thranduil with all the agony of a sword’s thrust, and he wanted to rage again, to weep, to rail against the cruel gods for injustice to his son, to himself…but he merely nodded, swallowing his anguish. 

Legolas’ lower lip trembled, along with his voice. “But…but she promised she would come,” he pleaded. “She promised! And I want her! Please, _Ada_ , I want her!” He flung himself on his pillow and abandoned himself to tears, sniffling sobs racking his small body.

The temptation to flee, to turn away from the pain of his son and indulge privately in his own grief, seized Thranduil, but the familiar, beloved voice echoed in his ears with the words spoken gently after the first loss. 

_He needs you now, Thranduil. Legolas needs you. And you need him._

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, gathering Legolas into his arms, holding the boy while he cried, and stayed there he knew not how long, allowing his own tears to fall freely in the bitterness of their shared heartbreak.

* * *

**Seven years later**

Gandalf patted your armwith a steadying hand as you approached the palace gates of Mirkwood. You huddled a bit more deeply into the hooded cloak that shielded you from the public return to your home for which you were yet unprepared, and followed the wizard through massive doors, over twisting bridges of polished wood, looking with welling eyes upon the familiar, airy caverns filled with warm light, trailing behind him as he entered the throne room.

Your breath caught in your throat at the first sight of Thranduil, seated in a languid posture upon his throne. His chiseled beauty was exactly as you had pictured it every day of the last seven years, while you strove to commit to memory the faces of the ones most dear to you, fearful of their fading, but there was something brittle about him now…a hard look in his eye, a bitter edge to his countenance that was unfamiliar to you.

“Mithrandir,” he greeted the wizard with a world-weary smirk. “What brings you to my halls? You will forgive me if I am wary of your tidings, they are rarely cheerful.”

“King Thranduil,” Gandalf inclined his head, remaining gracious in the face of the Elvenking’s cynical welcome. “I believe you will feel differently when you have met my companion.” He glanced to where you lurked unnoticed behind him, flashing you an encouraging look.

Thranduil indulged in the smallest roll of his eyes as his fingers trailed idly over the carved wood armrest of his throne. “I have no time for a wizard’s riddles, Mithrandir. What is your business here?”

You stepped forward to stand beside Gandalf, able to wait no longer to make your presence known, and lowered the hood of your cloak.

The lazy stroke of Thranduil’s hand on the throne’s armrest turned to a tight grip as shock visibly washed over his body. His sharp intake of breath was audible where you stood, and the flawless face blanched as though he had seen a ghost…and, for his part, he had. Thranduil wondered if he would learn what it was to faint as he took in the sight of you alive before his eyes, and he stood shakily, scarcely trusting his feet to carry him down the precarious stairs to the floor, moving toward you as one in a dream.

Mere steps away from you, he seemed to collect himself, if only for a moment, and looked to the guards who stood by. “Out,” he barked abruptly. “ _Out!_ ”

They exchanged alarmed glances and wasted no time in scurrying toward the doors, leaving you and Gandalf alone with their king.

The only sound in the room was his whisper of your name, and his crystal-blue eyes were glassy as he tentatively clasped your shoulders before pulling you into a tight embrace, so gripped with emotion that he failed to notice your flinch at the sudden movement. Your arms moved hesitantly to rest on his back, first to steady yourself, then gradually to bury your fingers in handfuls of the satiny fabric of his robe as you smelled his familiar scent, listened to the sound of his voice, leaned into the reality of his solid, protective presence, and his tears fell silently into your hair while he murmured your name repeatedly, as though reciting an incantation.

Your own cheeks were stained with the tracks of tears when he pulled away to look at you, casting his eyes over your lank hair, your ashen skin, your thin frame in the coarse linen of the simple dress Gandalf had procured for you in a small village. 

“ _Meleth nín_ ,” he said brokenly, a tenderness coming into his voice that had not been there these long years. “Forgive me…had I but known you were alive, I should have moved mountains to find you and return you home.”

Thranduil had taken your hands in his, had raised them to press them penitently to his lips when your sleeves slipped, exposing your forearms. His eyes flew to yours before returning to your skin. Slowly, he pulled one sleeve further, revealing the puckered scar of a burn, a healing cut, the welts of a lash, and his face hardened, a twitching muscle in his jaw hinting at the fury that boiled inside him.

“Thranduil,” you pleaded, willing the former gentleness to return to his countenance, and there was a calmer look in his eye when he met your gaze. “What is past is past. Take no blame upon yourself…and I beg of you, do not ask me to speak of what I have endured.” 

He swallowed hard, regaining his composure, and nodded. “I am yours to command,” he vowed.

You gave him a small, grateful smile, though the sigh that escaped your lips spoke to your weariness of body and soul, and Gandalf tactfully edged closer.

“Perhaps my lady might be shown to a chamber to rest,” he suggested, and Thranduil quickly responded, calling for the exiled guards to send ladies to escort you.

“Your own rooms are as you left them,” he told you quietly, and you felt the salty sting of tears once more, touched by the thought of him preserving your chambers. You little knew the devotion he had shown to the task, the regularity with which servants had been sent to clean the rooms, the hours he had whiled away there himself, sitting in your chair, running his fingers reverently over your books and trinkets, striving to catch the smallest whiff of your fragrance, to feel the shadow of your spirit.

When your overjoyed attendants had led you away to the solace of your suite, Thranduil turned his attention to Gandalf in the heavy stillness of the room, his voice vibrating with emotion as he asked, “what happened to her?”

“It is not a pretty story to hear,” Gandalf warned soberly. “Gundabad orcs are not known for their mercy to prisoners.”

Thranduil seated himself on the stairs that ascended to his throne, staring for a long, silent moment at his clasped hands between his knees before looking to the wizard with resignation in his eyes. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

You were seated on the bed in your room, alone, having dismissed the maids who had accompanied you. They had been eager to help you bathe and dress, but you had begun to feel an all-too-familiar powerlessness pressing in upon you at being surrounded by hands, faces, voices, however gentle these might be. Left to yourself, you had soaked gratefully in the warm water, washed and painstakingly combed the knots from your hair, and changed into a nightgown scented faintly with the dried lissuin flowers that hung in sachets in your wardrobe. To be surrounded by beauty and kindness after years of harsh captivity overwhelmed you, and you felt slightly dazed as you drank in the almost unnerving peace of this familiar chamber that you’d despaired of ever seeing again.

A light knock sounded on the door, and Thranduil entered at your call, bearing a tray laden with food and flasks of wine and water that he placed on the small table beside the fireplace. “I thought perhaps you would be hungry.”

He was still shaken by Gandalf’s account of your captivity and escape, having listened with clenched fists and, often, closed eyes to the tales of the cruel pride your abductors had taken in making an example of their trophy from the skirmish in Mirkwood. In the depths of his heart, he promised himself to one day even that score, but for now, his only thought was to tend to you.

So it was that the king himself had appeared in the kitchens for only the second time in his adult life, causing the stunned cooks to step aside while he gathered the best of the meat, breads, and fruits that had been prepared for the evening meal, and carried this small feast to your door.

You surveyed the tray, and the sight of so much food at once, meant only for you, brought a lump to your throat. “Thank you,” you whispered. Your eyes met his, and with the simple helplessness of a lost child, you held out your hand to him.

Thranduil came to sit beside you, taking your hand between both of his, and when you leaned to rest your head on his shoulder, he carefully wrapped an arm around you and lay his head softly against yours. 

“Thank you,” you said again, laying your other hand over his.

“Anything for you, _meleth_.”

Raising your head again, you looked into the depths of his eyes, grounding yourself in the love you saw there. “Will you stay with me, Thranduil?”

“For as long as you wish.”

You remained there in quiet companionship as the light from the windows turned dusky, and for the first time since your terrified flight through the wilderness with the blood of your captors on your hands, you began to believe that you were truly safe at last.

* * *

“Watch this, _gwathel_ ,” Legolas said proudly, and loosed an arrow that landed squarely in the center of the target.

“Very good,” you nodded encouragingly, “you are becoming a fine archer.”

You sat on a bench in the garden, watching Legolas shoot and soaking up the warm rays of the afternoon sun. Three months had passed since your homecoming. Your hair had grown lustrous and shiny again, and the flesh had returned to your body, but your ordeal had left scars beyond the marks hidden by your clothes.

“Do you want to try?” Legolas offered you the bow, but you shrank from taking the weapon, and gave him a gentle smile. 

“No, thank you, little leaf. You keep practicing.”

He was older now, taller, eager to rush toward manhood, but still he grinned at the childish nickname from your lips and picked up another arrow. A tactful clearing of the throat could be heard, and you both turned to find Legolas’ tutor standing by, with Thranduil trailing behind.

“Time for your lessons, my Prince,” the elf reminded Legolas, and bestowed a kind smile upon you. “And may I say how good it is to see you out, my lady.”

You returned his smile, if self-consciously. “I thank you, Master Thalon.”

Legolas reluctantly gathered his bow and quiver and made to follow the tutor, turning to you at the last. “You will join us for dinner?” 

“I will,” you promised, and with a smile, he bounded with the exuberance of a young rabbit toward the palace.

Thranduil took a seat beside you on the bench to watch Legolas go, chuckling at poor Master Thalon trotting in an attempt to keep up with the energetic boy before turning to look searchingly at you.

“How are you today?” he asked quietly.

“Well enough,” you smiled, reaching for his hand.

His own smile was encouraging, and he dropped his eyes to your joined hands, stroking his thumb affectionately over your fingers. He had watched you struggle with your return to life in Mirkwood, had tried to stand between you and your demons on the darkest days when you wrestled with the shades of those lost years.

“Sometimes I fear the woman you love died that day in the forest,” you confessed abruptly, your eyes wandering to the sun-dappled branches above your heads.

“No,” he said firmly, “she is before me today.” He tilted his head to look intently into your face. “You are not broken, _meleth_. Only shaken.”

A rueful smile tugged at one corner of your mouth, and you pondered his words before asking, “do you know how I survived?”

His eyes widened, and the smallest of sounds in the garden seemed loud in the expectant silence. He had kept his promise never to ask you about your captivity and you had never before broached the subject yourself, and he said nothing, but gave a small shake of his head.

“I thought of you…of you and Legolas. I thought of Legolas as though he were my own. I hope she would forgive me for it…but I love him so, and it broke my heart that I could not be here when he needed me.” A rising sob cracked this last word, and you swallowed it back. “Every night, when I was alone, I imagined the next part of the story I was telling him. I whispered it to myself, as if by doing so I could make him hear me, make him know that I had not left him forever.”

Thranduil’s brow creased with anguished sympathy, and he gripped your hand almost painfully.

“And you…in the worst moments, when I was most frightened, when they were most vicious…they _were_ vicious, Thranduil. I was beaten and starved and threatened daily with death, and I was not so brave as to be free from the temptation to give up my spirit.” The words tumbled shakily out, mixed with tears, leaching poison from your soul as they left your lips. “But I thought of you, beside me, wanting me to persevere. And every day, no matter how I despaired, in my heart I promised you I would come home. Home to you.”

Thranduil reached for you, smoothly drawing you to his lap, enfolding you in his arms, burying his face in your shoulder as you clung to him with equal intensity of feeling. He looked up to you with bright eyes, caressing your cheek soothingly with his fingertips.

“You shall never be hurt again, _meleth nín,_ ” he vowed in a trembling voice. “You shall never be frightened again. You are mine to love and to protect, and so I shall. Forever.” You looked at him in wonder, and he went on determinedly. “Marry me, my starlight. I do not offer you the insult of a secret love…I wish you to be my wife, my Queen.”

“Thranduil,” sadness crept into your voice as you gently dislodged yourself from his embrace to stand. “The tradition that forbade us to marry when we were young has not changed. We made the decision together to be content in friendship.”

“I care no more for tradition,” he answered bitterly. “I care nothing for royal blood, or whether it flows in your veins. Every day that I believed I had lost you, I wished that I had defied tradition and married you long ago. Now you have been restored to me, and I scorn any heartless counsel to give you up again.”

“People will not like it,” you warned. 

He, too, rose to his feet, his voice softening as he reminded you, “there is one person, who has just gone to have lessons with his tutor, who would like it very much.”

A small, begrudging chuckle bubbled from your lips, and an answering smile warmed his expression.

“I will not press you, _meleth nín_ ,” he said gently. “Forgive me if I have been too eager. But you must know that I value you above all else…and I belong to you, body and spirit, whether you will have me or no.”

With a sigh, you moved to wrap your arms around him, resting your head against his chest to listen to the steady, comforting beat of his heart while his palm trailed soothingly up and down your spine.

“ _Gi melin_ , Thranduil,” you murmured, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“ _Gi melin_ ,” he answered fervently. “Always.”

“We could be happy together.” Your voice was nearly a whisper as you spoke the hope that had crept, unbidden, into your soul.

You felt his smile against your forehead, where his lips brushed your skin. “Can you doubt it?”

Closing your eyes, you indulged in thoughts of days and nights at Thranduil’s side, in thoughts of a life rooted in the love that had always bound you to one another and of a family created by that love, and the embers of the determination that had brought you back to him sparked into flame once more in your heart – for what had you resolved to live, if not for this? – and the word left your lips softly, sweetly, as of its own accord. 

“Yes.”

His fingertips lifted your chin, and he looked at you with a ruffled brow. “What?”

“Yes,” you said again, more firmly, your eyes glazed with welling happiness. “I would be yours, Thranduil, and I would call you mine.”

Thranduil’s lips curved into a quivering smile, and wordlessly he reached into the collar of his robe and drew out a long, slim silver chain, pulling it over his head to remove it from his neck. When it was coiled, shining and serpentine, in his palm, he held between his fingers the ring that had been strung as a pendant on its length…a silver ring set with a dark purple jewel.

“What is that?”

“It is yours, though you have never worn it,” he said wistfully. “It was made for you, and could belong to no other…and I have kept it close to my heart every day that I mourned you.”

A bittersweet tear spilled to your cheek, and he gave the chain a careless tug to break it, letting it fall to the ground while his eyes pleaded his suit. “Will you accept it now, along with my pledge?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he slipped the ring into its place on your first finger, cool and sparkling against your skin, before raising your hand to press it gratefully to his lips.

“I have no ring for you,” you apologized, but he quickly shook his head.

“No matter,” he assured you. “It is enough to have your heart.”

“You have it, _meleth nín_ ,” you smiled. “And always shall.”

His graceful hands moved to tenderly cradle your cheeks, and the radiance of his face might have outshone the light of the stars as he leaned to press the gentlest, most reverent of kisses to your lips.

The kiss lingered, deepened, and you melted into the circle of his arms, warmed by the confidence that he would love you fiercely, patiently, protectively, eternally. When the dark memories clawed at you in the stillness of night, stealing your courage and turning your blood to ice, his body would shield you, and come what may, your souls would be knitted together forever, each of your hearts safe in the trustworthy hands of the other.

You were his. You were home. You were found.


End file.
